a little is a lot

and other things dementia taught me

I saw my Dad, Neil today. The idea now, is to show up and be with whatever comes. Or remains. You see, he has dementia. I now delight in telling him stories about himself, to keep the memories alive. His and mine.

This week, a childhood friend wrote to me. Eric lost his “Uncle Mark” as we affectionately called him, years ago. He told me that of all of the “parent group” folks, “Uncle Neil” remained his favorite. He recalled Dad coming to their home in the middle of the night, to help delivery their puppies. “Dr. Neil”, I joked.

Dad worked in pharmaceutical advertising and his medical knowledge always had him just a smidge away from doc. Dad knew so much about medicine that he could tell you over the phone how to cure most ills. Eric asked that I share the story, send his love, and give him a big hug. Dad’s eyes lit at the story. “That sure sounds like me,” he said. This is often a refrain I get when I tell him Neil tales.

We walked to Lange’s Deli, where everyone knows him like they know you at Cheers. They still ask after his dog Max, and tell him to get another. Mr. Lange adds our tab on the back of the brown paper bag. Two sandwiches, two Dr. Brown’s (I remind him it is a favorite).  They pack up our sack, and the owner says, “ya know, you should get a pony.”  They giggle at this silly exchange and Dad offers, “be well”. He guides me across the street like a kid. “Watch that car, they are turning in”.  He’s still got my back.

I leave him at the corner as I dash to pop a letter in the mailbox. He waits. I sneak his photo. We finish up the short walk to his condo, and I steal some video. His gait is signature. I have the stunning awareness that I don’t want to forget this, and record it. He walks a bit on his toes, and the strides look peppy. At 83, with a new haircut and Levi’s, he is so seemingly young in spirit. I try hard to look for the good in all of the loss we are experiencing before our eyes. My bones ache with missing him, and he is standing before me.

He points out flowers newly planted on the condo grounds. Pansies, mostly yellow and some with purple centers. The daffodils and forsythia too. He has always liked a well-manicured lawn and admires how it is cared for each time we talk by phone. It is standard fodder, and I think knowing cover for his fading memory.

I sort through his clothes. We have two baskets outside the closet, because they need to be out for him to remember. I swap some new favorites into the rotation. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes it in. His easy-going, Mid-west nature is so baked into his DNA. This is Dad. His wise counsel missing, but the heart of who he is remains.

I cream Dad’s hands. We take in some TV. I place my hand on his and photograph them as he takes in a cooking show. He tells me about his recent trip to the Barber. “I think he went a bit short on the sides," he says. I think it is cool and modern. I call my Uber and as it pulls up, Dad takes his “wave you off” position on the porch. We hug and kiss “I love you Dad.” And as he always says, “love you more.”  He adds, “thanks for everything Bub”. I roll down the window to take in his signature send off.

I remind myself, even a little is a lot. A little is a lot.

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My Dad will turn 85 on August 31st this year. He now lives in an assisted memory community. I am so grateful for writing down some of these reflections and keeping them on my computer. If you wish to stir some memories, come write with me. I am hosting a free prompt led hour of reflection and would love for you to join me virtually. Writing is movement. A balm. A reminder. It can be a voice from within and a wonder. I know the time I spend writing to be of great healing. Come get curious. I’ll bring the inspiration. x, B